


The Silent Language

by kim47



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-10
Updated: 2012-06-10
Packaged: 2017-11-07 10:56:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/430295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kim47/pseuds/kim47
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John gets some bad news. Sherlock helps.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Silent Language

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a long-lost prompt on the kinkmeme that asked for John all-out crying.

_Tears are the silent language of grief._

__Voltaire

*

John slammed the door to the flat and stormed into the kitchen. He wrenched open the cupboard and pulled out a mug, filled the kettle with water rather violently, and set it down to boil.

His hands were shaking, he noticed distantly. It felt like his whole body was trembling, actually, inside and out. His head was pounding, repeating the words in an endless loop, and he couldn't make it stop.

"John?" Sherlock called from the living room. John startled at the sound; he'd entirely forgotten about Sherlock, hadn't even noticed him when he came in.

"Yes, Sherlock, everything's fine," he managed to call back, but he could hear how his voice sounded, tight and shaky and wrong. There was silence in reply; Sherlock was no doubt working out exactly what had happened, and any moment now was going to come into the kitchen and coolly explain all the reasons why it was irrational for John to be feeling like this. Or possibly, if John was lucky, offer him some stiff sympathy: a quick shoulder squeeze and a perfunctory expression of condolence.

John didn't think he could deal with that right now.

The kettle boiled and he reached for his mug, but his shaking hands and tightly wound muscles made him overreach and there was what seemed to John a disproportionately loud crash as the mug tumbled to the floor and shattered.

The emotions John had been shoving down for two hours were now bubbling up under his skin, clawing at his insides. He braced his hands on the kitchen sink and leaned forward, head bowed, trying desperately to choke back the sob he could feel threatening to escape.

Suddenly there was a gentle hand on his shoulder and he could hear Sherlock’s quiet breathing behind him. John tensed his shoulders and dipped his head further, trying to take a deep, calming breath, but it caught in his throat and made his eyes sting. He knew that however tightly he screwed up his eyes, it was only a matter of time before the tears spilled over, and once they started,he didn’t know how he’d be able to stop.

He wanted to speak, to beg Sherlock to just give him some space, please, Sherlock, I can’t right now, I just need a moment, please, because he couldn’t deal with Sherlock’s cool logic and reasoned arguments right now.

But Sherlock didn't say anything. Instead, John felt Sherlock’s hands slipping over his where they held on to the sink in a white-knuckled grip. He gently stroked John’s hands and slipped his fingers between John’s own, easing them apart. After a moment, John let go of the sink and Sherlock took his hands entirely, turning John to face him.

John couldn’t look at him; he didn’t know what he would see in Sherlock’s face, but he was holding himself together by the tiniest of threads and he was afraid that whatever he saw there would break him apart completely. He squeezed Sherlock’s fingers, his eyes still shut, his heart hammering and his breathing heavy.

“John, please look at me,” Sherlock said quietly.

Reluctantly, John opened his eyes.

His first thought was that he’d never seen Sherlock’s face looking so soft. It had none of the hard, angular brilliance that it carried so well. Instead, his forehead was furrowed in concern, his lips pressed together in a worried line, his eyes soft--he looked almost as upset as John felt. And, god, that was too much, this was Sherlock looking at him like that, his mad, brilliant Sherlock, and John felt his face crumple and the tears start. He pulled his hands out of Sherlock’s grip and buried his face in them as his shoulders started to shake.

Sherlock wordlessly wrapped his arms around John and pulled him into his body, so that John’s covered face was pressed into the join of his neck and shoulder. John could feel Sherlock’s hands curling protectively around his upper arms and Sherlock’s slightly unsteady breathing where his arms were fitted against Sherlock's chest..

He was crying properly now, great, wrenching sobs that seemed to start in his stomach and clenched at his heart as they passed, spilling out onto the collar of Sherlock’s stupidly expensive shirt. He was starting to get a little dizzy and his throat was aching, but it felt, if not good, then draining, like all the tension and anger and fear that he’d been carrying was leaving him. He dropped his hands from his face and curled them around Sherlock’s back, hugging him far too tightly. It had to be uncomfortable for Sherlock but John couldn’t loosen his grip--he was certain the minute Sherlock let go of him he was going to shatter into a million pieces right there on their kitchen floor.

Sherlock showed no signs of discomfort; he was rubbing one of his hands up and down John’s arm, and pressing his face into John’s hair, dropping the occasional kiss on his head.

They stood like that for a long time, although John had no real sense of the time that was passing. He was only aware of Sherlock’s smell and his hands and his hair ticking at John’s cheek and the soothing words Sherlock was murmuring in his ear. He couldn’t process them properly, _it’s okay, John, it’s alright, whatever you need, it’s going to be okay_ , a meaningless jumble of empty words and phrases. But spoken softly in Sherlock’s low voice, they made John’s heart ache in the best possible way.

Eventually, his sobs quietened and his shoulders stilled, until he was taking deep, ragged breaths against Sherlock’s chest. He drew back a little, self-possessed enough to be slightly embarrassed, and relinquished his grip, moving to smooth the damp, crumpled mess of Sherlock’s shirt. He wanted say something, apologise for his outburst, but his throat ached and he couldn't trust himself to speak.

Then Sherlock’s hands were framing John’s face, tilting it upwards to look at him. Sherlock smoothed his thumbs over John’s damp cheeks and kissed him briefly, before fetching him a glass of water and a box of tissues. John accepted both gratefully, blowing his nose and gulping the water down. When he was done, Sherlock reached silently for his hand again and led him into the living room. He sat down on the sofa and pulled John down next to him, tucking John into his side.

John felt overwhelmed, and almost like he could cry again. He tried to concentrate on his breathing, in and out, until he could no longer hear the ragged hitches in his breath and his head was no longer spinning.

“What happened, John?” Sherlock asked finally, his voice gentle. John was sure he must already know. He had to: this was Sherlock, who’d picked apart his life story from his haircut and his phone when they'd only just met, and who now knew John better than anyone else did. But he was unspeakably grateful to Sherlock for asking anyway, for giving John the chance not to tell him.

“I spoke to the doctor,” John said, his eyes closing. “I went to see Harry, but she wouldn’t tell me anything, so I spoke to her doctor.”

He paused, breathing deeply and willing himself to be calm

“Harry was diagnosed with cirrhosis nine months ago, I knew that, but she’s developed complications.” His voice was steadier now, as though he took comfort from stating the bare facts. “Type 2 hepatorenal syndrome.”

Sherlock was quiet for a moment, then--

“How long?”

John’s chest was tightening again, and tears were pooling in his eyes again.

“Six months.”

Sherlock’s arm around him tightened and he pressed his lips to John’s forehead, saying nothing.

“It’s my fault,” John choked out finally. This was it, this was what he’d been crushed under, this horrifying, immovable guilt.

“It’s not,” Sherlock said, a slight edge in his voice.

John shook his head.

“We never got along. We were just too different, I think. When Harry was seventeen, she had an enormous row with our father and she just moved out. God, she was so young and so stubborn. You wouldn't believe the temper on her.” He could see Harry as she had been then: seventeen years old, red hair tousled where she'd run frustrated fingers through it, glasses askew, her entire being vibrating with life and passion and righteous indignation. “I should have kept an eye on her, but I was just...busy, y’know? I had school and rugby and my own life. And then I went to medical school, then I joined the army, and it was just... She was never a priority. It was too much work, dealing with her. And I knew what she was doing, I knew about the drinking, but I never--”

He couldn't stop the few tears that spilled over down his cheeks, and he rubbed eyes furiously.

“I should have done something,” he managed at last, his voice trembling.

There was a long moment of quiet before Sherlock spoke again.

“I’m sorry, John,” was all he said, the genuine distress and regret in his voice evident. He offered no explanations, no logic, just a heartfelt word of sympathy and another press of lips to his forehead. It was so tender and so welcome that John turned his head and kissed Sherlock on the mouth, heart full of gratitude and love, marvelling at Sherlock's endless ability to surprise him.

Sherlock responded slowly, kissing John back gently, his free hand coming up to cradle John’s jaw. They kissed for long moments, deep and languid, and John lost himself in it, letting go of everything except the feel of Sherlock’s lips and tongue, the warmth of his hands. John slid his hand up around Sherlock’s neck and tugged him closer, toying with the hair at Sherlock’s nape. It didn’t feel like a prelude to sex, only warm and comfortable and exactly what John needed.

Eventually, John drew back slightly and rested his forehead against Sherlock’s.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

Sherlock hummed in reply, kissed him again, and tugged John until he was half sprawled across Sherlock’s body. John felt exhausted, physically and emotionally spent, and he allowed his eyes to close and his breathing to slow, his thumb tracing patterns on Sherlock's collarbone.

He slipped into sleep with Sherlock’s arms tight around him.


End file.
